I Put His Balls Back In My Purse, Where They Damn Well Belong! Yeah…”She’s Baaack”.Posted: September 25, 2011
I must be feeling better because I’ve turned into a screeching bitch whose voice my husband informed me this morning could cut glass, as he lay on the coach rubbing his hands vigorously over his face, trying to ward off the headache he had from a hangover that I was now contributing to. Know what I did? I GOT LOUDER! I have mastered run-on sentences and the ability to annoy even the most patient participant in a conversation, and given that the sound of my voice is anything but slight have been known to bring a grown man down to his knees pleading for me to stop talking. Yes, it’s that kind of voice. Backed by a bad attitude this can be excruciatingly painful for the recipient of my anger. The recipient this morning happened to be the Old Man.
I really don’t know if he’s dumb as a box of rocks or simply don’t care, but he’s been with me long enough to know not to take advantage of me when I’m emotionally weak or in a sensitive state and can’t fight back, because I eventually will at some point excuse myself from the pity party, wipe away the remaining tears, chin-up, back straight, move forward, and am once again a force to be reckoned with. He knows this because it’s happened many times in our seven year relationship, and end result is never pretty when he does. As I said…he’s either just plain stupid or doesn’t give a shit. Neither excuse would fare well for him, as I don’t care.
It occurred to me last night just how much distance he’s gained on me since my depression first began several months ago, by how far he’s willing to push me with his assumptions of what I will be willing to put up with. And I admit, I don’t notice how inconsiderate he is, or how badly he takes me for granted when I’m depressed, because well…I’m writhing in my own misery, a bit preoccupied at the time keeping my head above water so I don’t go under, trying to find reasons to want to keep breathing and muster up the strength to pull myself back to what I consider to be ‘normal’ for me–albeit different to what anyone else would consider normal, I’m sure–and dealing with his ‘petty shit’ is simply not my top priority. IT IS NOW! I’m not feeling quite as sick anymore.
The Old Man was gone all day yesterday running (typical of a Saturday) while I sat home alone. Not a problem. I’m used to it by now. He came home, as usual said nary a word to me, grabbed a beer, and headed out towards the garage leaving me alone again. I believe I made some comment to him about how nice it would be if he spent some time with me once in a while that went completely unnoticed by him. After, the most I saw of him was when he crossed through the dining room into the kitchen MANY TIMES to get a new beer, eventually closing up the garage and venturing up to his ‘private’ man cave to listen to his music. It was after ten when he stumbled down the stairs, reached for the front door knob, and I stopped him to ask what he was doing now. As nonchalantly as you please he told me that his buddy was coming over and they were going to drink in the garage. When I came unglued, asked him why he wanted to be married if he wasn’t the least bit interested in spending time with me, instead of taking that as a sign that perhaps he should call his buddy, cancel the little soiree they had planned, and park his butt on the couch next to me, he walked out the door just as arrogant as you please. For a moment I found myself sighing and willing to let it go like I do and have every weekend for months. For a moment! He knew the time for taking liberties with me and my sickness was over when I threw the words “You’re turning into a damn drunk and this shit is 90% of our problem.” and hurled the remaining 12-pack of beer onto the garage floor which sent cans scattering everywhere, and stomped back out. Now you have an idea of why my voice could ‘cut glass’ this morning.
Yeah, I’m not feeling quite so sick anymore…which I’m sure will come as a blessing to most of you who’ve been reading my blog all along and being forced to participate in my pity party. Sully’s illness and death is over and I’m trying to put it behind me. My youngest son is in school, doing well enough without me, and I’m coming to terms with the fact that he’s becoming an adult and I have to let him go. The dreadful heat of summer is over, I’m finding the Fall weather to be most pleasant, have started making plans for some sewing and crocheting projects I want to start this winter to occupy myself, and am beginning to find things to look forward to again. I’m beginning to feel like LOU again.
“Behind every great man is a greater woman.” I bitched non-stop for about a half an hour on his poor behavior starting from the onset of my depression. I have a very long memory. I forget little when it annoys me. He attempted to hog-tie my attitude back into submission, but it didn’t work. Eventually I let him be, ignored him as I began working on this piece (and yes, in case any of you wonder, he knows exactly what I write about him, because I have absolutely no problem letting him read it. If he don’t want his dirty laundry aired, then he should stop playing in the damn mud, is my theory), only to find him trying to get my attention by pulling gently on my ponytail, asking for a smooch–which I refused to give him–and basically sucking up BIG TIME. I couldn’t help thinking as I watched him smile and trying to joke with me, that maybe he saw my being a bitch as a good sign that all was well with the world, and we could now get back to the business of living and being us again. Being us again. Hmm… If this is what he’s comfortable with, what does that mean exactly?